


if we’re gonna fake it, fake it right

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: tumblr fics & ficlets, part ii. [18]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Basketball, Complicated Relationships, Hand Jobs, Locker Room Sex, M/M, Pre-Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 14:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: The thing is, Ryan’s fairly certain that Zack isn’tactuallya bad guy, probably. Off the court, he seems like a smart guy, who just so happens to haveterribletaste in sports teams and a great smile and a tattoo of a tree on the pale white skin on the inside of his arm that Ryan has resolutely not spent any time staring at in the past. Maybe, in some kind of alternate universe, they could have been acquaintances. Maybe even friends.The problem is that, as a rival team captain, Zack is fuckingunbearable.





	if we’re gonna fake it, fake it right

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this for awhile, but [Ella](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elasticella) definitely sped up the writing process and is 200% to blame for the fact this is going to end up with a Ryan/Shane/Zack sequel. 
> 
> this also totally works for the prompt "sex with clothes half on" from [this](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/post/170288406393/tickatocka-some-fun-sex-tropes-laughing-during) list, which I am slowly making my way through.
> 
> title from [Stay Ignorant](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6SbiuMrWi5M) by Don Broco.

Ryan doesn’t think that he’s ever heard the locker room this quiet.

Aside from the dripping coming from the showers and the persistent hum of the air conditioning overhead, there’s nothing to break the silence, no backslapping or raucous laughter or metal clanging as people slam their lockers shut. The contrast to how it was only forty-five minutes ago, when everyone filed in after the intramural basketball final drew to a close, is almost jarring, but he’s definitely grateful for the quiet.

He has the place to himself; the last person from his team left about fifteen minutes ago and, as far as he knows, no one else has the gym booked for the night, which means he probably doesn’t have to worry about anyone else breaking the quiet. His hair is still wet from the shower, dripping down the back of his neck and soaking into the collar of his t-shirt, and he should probably be heading back to his dorm room soon; the amount of studying he’s neglected this week so that he could have adequate time to prepare for the game is a little bit pathetic.

But he’s not quite ready to leave yet. He’s not done turning the game over in his mind, playing it back moment by moment, trying to figure out exactly _how_ , despite his certainty that they’d been the better team going into the finals, they managed to lose.

He knows that overthinking it this much, getting so lost in his own mind, is pretty fucking stupid. After all, it’s not like winning would have gotten him anything worth having. There’s no prestige, no trophy to display on a shelf; the only concrete prize of any sort is a t-shirt that’s actually pretty ugly and would probably just end up buried in the back of his closet anyways.

But still. He’d just been so _sure_ that they had this in the bag.

They’d only lost by six points. Six points is chump change. Six points is _infuriating_ , because there’s a chance that if he’d just done _something_ a little bit differently, maybe they could have come out on top.

Maybe, if he’d passed the ball to Eugene instead of TJ at the start of the fourth quarter, they could have gotten another three-pointer, could have pushed into the lead. Maybe, if he’d just drank some more water, he could have pushed himself a little harder, could have blocked some more shots. Maybe, if fucking unfairly good looking Shane Madej, the guy from Ryan’s history class who once loudly declared that sports were useless (unless they were the Winter Olympics), hadn’t been sitting in the third row actually _watching_ the goddamn game for some reason, Ryan would have been less distracted. 

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. So many goddamn maybes and what-ifs.

He’s just started to break down the first quarter for the third time when the door of the locker room bangs open, startling him so much that he almost falls backwards off the bench. He glances over at the entrance, sure that it’ll just be a janitor, or maybe a couple hoping to take advantage of the empty space.

Instead, Zack Evans, who is the last person on earth that he wants to see right now, strolls around the corner.

And the thing is, Ryan’s fairly certain that Zack isn’t _actually_ a bad guy, probably. They have one class together, Introductory Film Studies on Tuesdays and Fridays, and he doesn’t talk through the movies they watch, doesn’t treat the course like a GPA booster like 80% of the class does, actually participates in class discussions. They’ve talked a few times at parties thrown by mutual friends, even hung out briefly at the campus bar a few weeks ago, even though that happened mainly because the place was packed and the only place Ryan could find to stand happened to be at Zack’s side. Off the court, he seems like a smart guy, who just so happens to have _terrible_ taste in sports teams and a great smile and a tattoo of a tree on the pale white skin on the inside of his arm that Ryan has resolutely not spent any time staring at in the past. Maybe, in some kind of alternate universe, they could have been acquaintances. Maybe even friends.

The problem is that, as a rival team captain, Zack is fucking _unbearable._

When he’s on the court, he plays dirty, pushes the rules to the absolute limit and somehow manages to get away with shit Ryan would be (and has been) immediately called out for. When he’s on the bench, he doesn’t shut the fuck up. If he isn’t chirping the refs, he’s obnoxiously cheering on his teammates or chirping someone on Ryan’s team (usually Ryan himself). Even when they aren’t playing against each other, he’s insufferable; Ryan’s lost count of the number of times Zack showed up at the gym when Ryan’s team was practicing and just sat in the bleachers and watched, silently judged him.

Basically, Ryan can’t stand the fucking guy.

“Hey man,” Zack says, sounding so casual and chill, like they’re actual _friends_ or something. “What are you still doing here?”

“Nothing,” Ryan answers tersely. “What are _you_ doing here?” He doesn’t want to be around Zack right now, that much is for damn sure, but he’s sure as hell not going to concede defeat by packing up his stuff and heading out.

He’s not going to let Zack kick his ass twice in one night.

“Forgot my water bottle.” Zack crosses the room and stops at a locker just in front of Ryan, but he doesn’t make any move to open it. Instead, he leans back against the dented metal, like he’s making himself comfortable. Like he’s going to stick around awhile.

Even though the bench is starting to make his ass numb, even though he’d rather pull out one of his own teeth than have to sit here and talk to Zack for anything longer than a few seconds, Ryan refuses to budge.

“You alright?” Zack asks, running one hand through his blonde hair, still fluffy from the shower, before he crosses his arms over his chest. He’s wearing the goddamn t-shirt, the one his team got for winning, the one that should rightfully be Ryan’s. It’s a dark maroon with their school’s logo across the front and the word Captain in white letters on the sleeve. It fits him perfectly, clings to the lines of his shoulders and his narrow waist. 

It’s the ugliest thing Ryan has ever seen.

“Didn’t peg you as the kind of guy to give a shit,” Ryan answers. He’s willing to admit that it sounds a _little_ petulant, but he’s not taking it back. Zack raises an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth, which is framed by a thin coating of blonde stubble, quirks up.

“Didn’t peg you as the kind of guy to be such a sore loser,” he counters, and it takes all of Ryan’s willpower not to leap up off the bench. He settles for clenching his fingers together until his knuckles throb. 

It works for all of five seconds, until Zack continues talking.

“You guys played really well out there. For real. We just played better.”

Ryan jumps to his feet with enough force to send the bench skating backwards across the tiled floor.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps, stepping forward until they’re toe to toe. “The only thing your team is better at is playing dirty and getting away with it.”

Zack’s loud laugh echoes around the room. “Give me a break. We don’t play dirty.”

“Bullshit,” Ryan retorts. “ _You_ should have fouled out in the fourth quarter. What the fuck did you do? Bribe the refs to look the other way?”

“Are you _actually_ serious?” Zack asks disbelievingly, shaking his head. Bizarrely, he’s smiling a little as he does it, which makes Ryan more pissed off, makes him want to shove Zack fully back against the locker. “Man, I just played better than you. Get over it.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan says, taking another step closer. Idly, he notices that Zack is a few inches taller than him, tall enough that he has to tilt his head back a little to make eye contact with him. He smells like citrus and Old Spice, and Ryan kind of wants to punch him square in the face. “Bet I could kick your ass in one on one.”

“Oh, you bet, do you?” Zack laughs again, and his smile grows even larger. “How come I got twelve points by you then?”

“Because you’re a fucking cheater!” Ryan yells before he can stop himself. His voice seems to carry around the room for an inordinate amount of time, and he digs his fingers into his palms, face warm with humiliation. After everything he said to himself about not letting Zack win again, he’s totally blown it, is never going to be able to live this down. 

But even though he just yelled directly into his face, Zack _still_ doesn’t look concerned or even mildly aggravated. His mouth is now curved into a wide grin, and Ryan gets the distinct feeling that he’s missing something, some kind of inside joke or underlying message.

It’s absolutely infuriating. Even more infuriating than losing the game and having Zack rub it in his face is is the feeling that Zack is _still_ holding something entirely different over him.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?” he snaps, glaring at Zack’s mouth. “Seriously, what's your goddamn problem?” He expects Zack to just laugh at him again, maybe goad him some more.

Instead, Zack surges forward and kisses him hard enough to knock Ryan back a few steps. Instinctively, he reaches out to steady himself, and his fingers hook into the front of Zack’s shirt, which just serves to tug them closer together. It’s a kiss that’s totally lacking in finesse, and before Ryan can really even think of how to start processing it, Zack pulls away, backs up until he’s flush with the locker again. There’s a hint of color in his cheeks, and even though he’s the one who initiated things, he looks slightly dazed, like he’s trying to figure out what just happened.

“You’re really hot when you’re pissed off,” he says, belatedly answering Ryan’s question. “That’s my problem.” His fingers are twitching slightly where they’re resting at his sides, and as Ryan watches, his gaze slowly flicks towards the entrance, like he’s thinking about bolting for it.

The most reasonable thing in the world would be to let him do it, would be for Ryan to let go of Zack’s shirt and let him walk away, maybe even give him a slight push for good measure. He could let Zack leave, and he could return to sitting on the bench and brooding and letting his anger about losing continue to simmer. They could go back to being even less than acquaintances, go back to just being two people who happen to know of each other’s existence only because of their shared proximity and interests.

He could do that.

But instead, he tightens his fingers in Zack’s shirt, steps forward into his space, and kisses him back.

Zack stays absolutely stock-still for a moment, body so stiff than Ryan’s recklessness starts to melt away in favor of sheer fear. But before he can step back, like a switch has been flipped, Zack moves. His lips part, and he drops his hands to either side of Ryan’s face, splays his fingers across his cheeks and presses in, like he’s trying to keep Ryan from moving backwards again.

Ryan has no plans on doing that. Stupid as this decision may be, he’s fucking committed to it now. Backing out would mean another win for Zack, and if Ryan can’t leave this day in the lead, then it’s damn well going to be a tie between them.

He loosens his fingers in Zack’s shirt, drags them down his chest and curls both hands around his waist so that he can shove Zack more firmly back against the locker. Zack grunts quietly and drags his thumb down the side of his neck before he wraps one hand around the back of Ryan’s neck, grips him hard enough to bruise. It’s a tight enough grip that Ryan has difficulty pulling away more than a few inches when he needs to draw some air into his lungs. Since he’s being forced to stay in close proximity, he decides to take advantage of it by tilting his head to the side and pressing his teeth into Zack’s jawbone, right into a faint bruise that came from someone’s elbow.

Zack doesn’t have much in the way of nails, but he still manages to scratch the back of Ryan’s neck hard enough for Ryan to grit his teeth. In retaliation, he bites down harder, and Zack drops his head back against the locker with a metallic thud.

“You’re a dick,” he groans, dropping his other hand to Ryan’s shoulder and squeezing tightly. 

Ryan buries a smirk into Zack’s jaw and slides down a little further, so that he can get his mouth on Zack’s throat. His pulse is racing, and Ryan bites down again on the skin right above it, only slightly gentler this time, still hard enough to leave a red splotch behind on Zack’s fair skin. 

Idly, he wonders if the mark will still be visible in two days time, when they have class together.

Just to increase his chances, he moves down to where Zack’s neck meets his shoulder, just above the collar of his hideous shirt, sinks his teeth in, and sucks.

“Holy shit,” Zack gasps, head tilting back even further. His hips press forward, right against Ryan’s, and there’s no mistaking that he’s hard.

Which is handy, because Ryan’s been hard since Zack raked his nails down the back of his neck. Maybe even before that.

He’s just started on another mark when Zack reaches down between them and roughly palms at Ryan’s dick through the thick fabric of his jeans. His breathing stutters, and he lets Zack’s skin slip from his teeth as he presses forward into Zack’s hand, traps it between them. 

This is an incredibly stupid idea. Even if the gym isn’t booked by anyone else, the door isn’t locked. Anyone could come waltzing in, and they’d have mere seconds to make themselves look presentable.

But when Zack goes one step further, roughly yanks Ryan’s button and zipper open and shoves his hand down into his boxers, Ryan doesn’t stop him. Instead, he follows Zack’s lead, cranes his head up for another rough kiss and swallows down Zack’s moan when Ryan wraps his fingers around his dick.

The circumstances are far from ideal; Ryan’s wrist starts to ache within minutes due to the awkward angle, and even with Zack’s pants open, there’s not really enough room for him to establish a good rhythm. It doesn’t seem to matter much to Zack though; he’s panting against Ryan’s mouth, teeth occasionally skimming over his bottom lip, eyes closed, looking so thoroughly _wrecked_ that Ryan can’t help but feel positively triumphant. 

But, even though there’s no mirrors nearby, he’s pretty sure that he looks much the same. Even with the tight quarters, Zack’s managed to find the perfect speed, seems to know instinctively when to loosen his grip or move a little faster. When he momentarily pulls his hand away, Ryan is ready to ask what the fuck he’s doing, but he just spits in his palm before he moves it back and, yeah, it’s a little fucking gross, but it takes things from being pretty damn great to fucking _awesome._

Zack comes first, with the fingers of his free hand gripping Ryan’s bicep tightly, and Ryan follows suit only a few moments later. Most of the mess ends up on himself, which is unfortunate, because he’s going to have to change back into his sweaty gym clothes, but when he backs away a step, he notices that the bottom of Zack’s shirt has a few small stains on it.

He’s counting that as a victory.

After they pull apart, Ryan wipes his hand off on his pants and zips himself back up, wincing when his jeans stick to his skin. He needs to clean up, but he’s not going to do it in front of Zack, who only adds to the stains on his t-shirt when he wipes his hand off on it.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat and putting his back to Ryan so that he can open his locker. Truth be told, Ryan almost forgot that the actual reason Zack was there was because he forgot something. After a moment of rummaging, he pulls a loose red flannel on over his shirt. Once he turns back around, water bottle in hand, he continues, “You gonna go back to pouting now?”

“Fuck you,” Ryan automatically responds, sitting back down on the bench and yanking his bag towards him so he can fish his shorts back out. Zack laughs loudly as he shuts his locker.

“Play your cards right, maybe that could happen one day.”

It’s definitely not the response Ryan was expecting to get, and no matter how hard he tries to come up with some kind of reply that won’t make him look totally thrown off-guard, he fails.

“Whatever,” he mutters, keeping his gaze directed into the inside of his bag. After a moment, Zack’s shoes cross his field of vision as he heads towards the exit, and Ryan sighs with relief.

His relief turns out to be premature.

“Hey,” Zack says, and Ryan glances sideways at where he’s lingering in the doorway, buttoning his flannel. “That Madej guy you spent half the fucking game staring at? If you ask him out, he’ll say yes.”

Ryan wants to deny it. He wants to proclaim that he has no idea what Zack is talking about, but if his distraction was that damn obvious, lying isn’t going to get him anywhere.

“How the hell do you know that?” he asks instead. Zack scoffs quietly and shakes his head and, once again, Ryan feels like he’s missing something incredibly fucking obvious.

“Why _wouldn’t_ he say yes?” With another shake of his head, Zack walks around the corner and disappears from sight. A few seconds later, the door opens, and the sound of his footsteps fades way. Once the door has loudly clicked shut again, Ryan lets out a breath and lets his head sag down on his neck.

“Fuck,” he says to the locker room, which is once again empty of only himself and his thoughts.

He has no idea how to wade through what’s filling his mind. He’s still pissed off about losing the game, but now, he’s totally and utterly confused, not about what just happened and _how_ it happened, but about how he’s supposed to handle the comment Zack let drop just before he left, both the content of it and the way he’d said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

He doesn’t know how to handle _any_ of that. Frankly, there’s only one thing that's been made clear by the events of the last few hours. 

Zack Evans is the fucking _worst._

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
